


Out of My League

by ArsenicApothecary



Series: Dirk Strider's Diary of a Robot Boy [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, more angsty poetry who would have guessed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArsenicApothecary/pseuds/ArsenicApothecary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're convinced this girl is secretly a goddess, but you're unable to tell her why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of My League

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still crap at summaries. I've been staring at this for over two weeks and decided to just post it already. It's probably one of the most frustrating things I've ever written. Hope you guys like it.

Loathing.

Pure unadulterated loathing.

Exactly what you feel for yourself and will never allow this girl to feel.

Because you've said it before, but you'll say it again.

Jane Crocker is simply a goddess.

The epitome of natural beauty.

Soft curves and soft skin, thick raven locks and eyelashes for miles. Eyes that twinkle, and a smile that lights up a room. Delicate hands and perfect features.

Any man would be blessed to be with her but she disagrees.

She often takes delicate hands to pinch at her stomach. You watch the way she looks in the mirror as she pinches fat deposits. The way she clamps her legs together to see how much fat her thighs have. The way she smoothes down curly hair only to become dissatisfied, dishevel it, and then repeat the process. How her delicate fingers run across stretch marks on porcelain skin; nails digging in and you can see she’s causing herself discomfort.

She then proceeds to let out a heavy sigh.

And you know what she's thinking.

She's thinking.

‘This is as good as it’s gonna get.’

But you like to disagree with her views.

Nimble fingers trace marks on her hips that fade at her waist. You call them growth. She calls them gross or disgusting.

She hates every inch of a body you love and you find that unacceptable. Unacceptable her hands trace things gifted from the heavens but appear so naturally on a human figure. Unacceptable that she’s so selfish in her loathing she can’t see how much she has to offer.

And you.

You want to press your lips to every inch of her body and tell her how beautiful she is.

You want to make her feel loved inside and out.

You want to show her she has growth, natural beauty.

You want her delicate hands to trace the plains of your body and see how ugly someone can be.

You want her to trace along hard lines of scars from miscalculated sword swings. Burns from torches and fried wires. Cuts and knicks from general carelessness throughout the years. You want her fingers to trace along your crooked nose and realize her growth is natural, while yours is manufactured, industrial.

You want to press your lips up her neck and down her spine, from her shoulders to her toes and you want to kiss every stretch mark and ‘imperfection’ she may have.

You want to press against her back and rest your head on her shoulder as you point out everything you love.

From her tapered waist, to smooth pale skin; how her eyes wrinkle when she smiles to how her brow creases when she's worried.

A great ass and thighs that, yes, are thick, but you still wouldn't mind being between them because she's gorgeous.

Everything that’s appealing right down to dainty feet with cherry red toenails.

Every feature you love in comparison to leathering skin and scars that are unnaturally white on tanned skin.

And you even love how she tells you how you’re lucky. Where you see manufactured imperfections she sees rugged handsomeness. You wish you could laugh at how blind she is to her own beauty but how easily she points out yours.

Because she’s perfect.

She’s perfect and she deserves to know it.

And you would tell her how much you want to be the one who traces along her hips.

The one who aimlessly touches all her ‘imperfections’ with careful fingers.

But you won’t be the one to tell her all this.

Because friends don't think about how gorgeous their friends would look under them, panting and dazed, lips quivering and brown furrowed. Or how soft their skin would feel against calloused hands. Friends most definitely do not undress friends mentally and think about if their bra and knickers match. And you do not stare at Jane’s ass as she walks up the stairs from the basement.

Definitely not.

Because friends don’t say things like that.

And you don’t want to ruin having her as a friend.

But that doesn't stop you from casually letting it slip that you think she looks pretty.

And when she kisses your cheek and smoothes down your hair as thanks, it doesn't leave you wonderless.

Wondering what would happen if you said she looked gorgeous

Or if you turned towards her when she went to kiss you.

Wondering what would happen if your lips pressed to hers for even a second.

Wondering what would happen if you showed her how absolutely perfect you thought she was.

If you whispered in her ear until the sound of your voice talking about her beauty was the only sound she could hear.

Wondering what would happen if you could make her see, could make her understand, just how perfect she is.

You wonder what it would take to make Jane realize she’s perfect.

But all you do is wonder

Because until you manage to grow a pair and sweep her off her feet.

Saying she looks pretty is the best you can manage.


End file.
